


Porcelain Dolls

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe-Ballet, Ana/Mia, Anorexia, Ballet, Brief Sheriarty, Cocaine, Danseurs, Depression, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Eating Disorders, M/M, No Mary Morstan, Sex, Uni!lock, University, ballet!lock, dance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two boys from two very different worlds sharing a dorm. How much harm can it do?</p><p>Sherlock Holmes, a fragile danseur and druggie comes to meet John Watson, a medical student and ex-soldier-in-training. John learns how to handle Sherlock, a virgin ballet dancer on the verge on breaking, and Sherlock learns to accept John's kindness, even though he's skeptical about the invasion of privacy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Sherlock Holmes was a good dancer.

 

Better yet, he was the lead dancer and choreographer of Baker Street University, right on the outskirts of London. Every critic spoke of the finesse displayed when he danced, leapt across wooden floors on perfectly-bridged feet, his slender figure landing soundlessly in third and fifth stances. For a long time, Sherlock Holmes was considered the best dancer in Baker Street's Royal Academy of Ballet, until James Moriarty made his debut as Gaston in a contemporary ballet production of _Beauty and_ _the Beast_ , which sold out every matinee and evening show. Reviews of Sherlock's dancing began to deteriorate from "extraordinary" and "unbelievably enthralling" to "dry", "predictable" and, most importantly, "second-best".

 

At seventeen years of age, Sherlock Holmes' career had reached its pique and come crashing back down to a preliminary-ballet class standard in the eyes of the media. As he lay in his dorm, smoking a lo-tar cigarette and beating his over-worked feet together in time to Dvorak's _New World Symphony_ , Sherlock thought of how much he resented James Moriarty. It was petulant, really, to hate someone for being liked, but he couldn't help it. He'd grown accustomed to the fame, the attention, and now it was being taken away from him, like sweets ripped from the hands of a spoilt child.

 

A new term was beginning, and Sherlock was determined to beat Moriarty at his own game. He'd once again show them all how hard he could work, and how brilliantly he could dance.

 

* * *

 

 

John Watson wasn't a good dancer.

 

In fact, he wasn't a dancer at all, but since he had handed in his university form two weeks late, and just so happened to be the little brother of the vice-director, he found himself outside dorm 221B with a suitcase in his hand, knocking gingerly on the door. A cacophony of shuffling and grumbling came from inside, and the door swung open, revealing a tall, skinny boy with a pale complexion and a mass a black curls.

 

"Can I help you?" he snapped, eyebrow raised as he gave the shorter boy a once over, taking in his ramrod-straight posture, his checked shirt and cardigan which made him look about twenty years older and his sandy blonde fringe which was swept to one side.

 

"Y-Yeah, I think so. My sister says I'm to stay here? I'm taking Medicine, but I didn't get a dorm in that building so they put me here." John avoided eye contact as he spoke, instead choosing to watch Sherlock's feet as they shuffled gently from first position to third.

 

"I didn't ask for company." Sherlock spat, closing the door. John's foot slid into the small gap between the door and the frame, and began to protest. The door opened again.

 

"No, no look! I can even show you the letter!" John patted down his trouser pockets, pulling out a creased piece of writing paper. He handed it to Sherlock who snatched it out of his hands, eyes flitting over the page. The crest at the top of the page depicted a lion with his paws raised and an open book beside it, and the Latin below read "Simul Nos Firmoires".

 

 _Together, we are strong_ , thought Sherlock.

 

"Your sister is vice-director? How convenient." Rage began to pool in the pit of John's stomach and his eyebrows furrowed together in anger.

 

"Excuse me? I didn't ask to be put here. I had as much part in the decision as you did. If you've got a problem with me, th-"

 

"Fine." John was taken aback by Sherlock's tone and the little wave of his hand.

 

"W-what?"

 

"Fine. Can't you hear properly? I said fine. You can stay." Sherlock said nonchalantly, opening the door and stepping back.

 

"Mighty big of you, your highness." John grumbled, yanking his luggage through the threshold and into the cosy room, littered with books and newspapers. A pair of worn peach ballet slippers hung from the wall by their laces and a picture of Sherlock and another dancer in the middle of an elegant grand battement was hung over the fireplace. Two chairs sat opposite each other and a violin sat half-hazardly off one. The small living room was paired with an even smaller, narrow kitchen which led off into a hall housing two bedrooms. Sherlock sat himself down on the chair that held the violin, picking it up and placing it under his chin, adjusting the rest to comply with his prominent collarbones and turning the fine-tuners gently.

 

"I suppose you shall stay in the room to the right. Mine's at the very end. Under no circumstance are you to enter. There's one bathroom, opposite your room. I hope you don't have a problem with smoking; it's a rather favoured hobby of mine. Do make yourself at home, and stop standing around. It's distracting."

 

 _Jesus_ , thought John. _This should be interesting_.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter Two

"Jeté! Jeté, Sherlock!" Screamed the lead choreographer of the upcoming _Nutcracker_ , a scream that echoed around the dance hall and rang in the ears of onlooking dancers. Sherlock was too tired. There are really only so many split steps you can practice in the space of two days, especially when you've been without food for both.

 

Two weeks Sherlock and John had been living together and John had begun to notice Sherlock's eating patterns, or lack thereof. Every evening, Sherlock would slam the door of dorm 221B, and flit up the stairs without even a glance in John's direction and all he would hear for the rest of the night, sometimes up to two or three in the morning was the thrasing of Sherlock's slim body as he threw himself around his room in time to Strauss' _Roses From the South_ or Vivaldi's _First Movement of the_ _Four Seasons_. In the mornings, Sherlock was rarely seen before nine and he was always rushing as classes began at a quarter of nine. Breakfast was a luxury Sherlock never indulged in. They rarely spoke, bar brief exchanges of "Good morning" and "Do you want anything to eat?", which was always followed by Sherlock shaking his head.

 

 

John had heard a lot about Sherlock from the students of the university. For example, the only reason he'd gotten in, even though his place was well earned by now, was because of his brother's close ties with the university directors. He'd been expelled from his first secondary school at the age of fifteen for the fifty-bag and three boxes of cigarettes found in his locker, and had nearly been expelled from the boarding school he was banished to after that for the cocaine stashed under his floorboards. The only reason he wasn't expelled was, again, due to Mycroft. They all, including the teachers, knew that Sherlock was in the possession of drugs, and it enthralled John. More than a few times, he'd seen Sherlock with a shabby-rolled joint between his slender fingers, taking relaxed puffs and surrounding his head with a fog of pure bliss. John'd only ever been high once before, and he'd fallen into a lake for his troubles.

 

 

There were rumours that Sherlock was gay, especially after Moriarty released a picture of them both drunk, Sherlock kissing his neck and Moriarty's head thrown back in what looked like laughter. This also, for some unfathomable reason, excited John. He'd had experience in that area before, especially when he went to train in an army barracks for a mere four months before being shipped back home. They only wanted the strong, the bulky, the brave. He'd been with another boy before, when both were slightly drunker than they were used to. It was all a bit of a blur for John, but he remembered a clumsy blowjob and a pain in his arse the day after.

 

What bothered John the most though wasn't the drugs or the rumours, but the fact that in the space of two short weeks, he'd found himself irrevocably attracted to Sherlock Holmes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Though the dance studio was big enough to hold three classes at once, Sherlock found himself unbelievably confined and restricted between the mirrored walls as he practiced his rond de jambe in time to Bizet's _L'Arlesienne Intermezzo_ , and to fondu, and back to rond de jambe, all the time thinking of his upcoming performance in the _Nutcracker_.

 

Adler, of course, got the part of the little girl. He respected her, despite her flaws. Every curve of her slender form and extension of her long, perfectly turned legs were awe-enticing, and they even earned raised eyebrows from Sherlock himself, a most high honour. He was competing against Moriarty for the role of the prince. Neither wanted to be cast as the Mouse King, though an important role, because it didn't matter how beautiful or elegant the dancer was, audiences despised the Mouse King. Sherlock knew he had to work day and night, not stop dancing until the day of the audition if he were to win this role. He knew that proper ballet dancers were slim, bony, light on their feet and for this reason, meals were never eaten. Instead, cartons upon cartons of cigarettes were smoked, gallons of water drank. Sherlock's ballet slippers were almost never off his feet, except at night. He stayed in the studio all day, both in classes and in free time.

 

Sherlock didn't believe in free time; danseurs weren't supposed to be free. They were under an oath, a ballerina's code of chivalry to always remain faithful. To him, ballet wasn't a hobby, it was a way of life. It caused him so much pain, blood and tears but he loved it, and he lived for it. The passion that arose with every string of allegro, every pirouette. The thrill of knowing that every pair of eyes in the audience were on him and his partner in the middle their pas de deux. The satisfaction at the end of every routine, the pride, the admiration of others. While others danced because they wanted to, Sherlock danced because he needed to. He was determined to get this part, even if it meant sneaking back to the studio after hours for some vital rehearsal time. This was the reason John Watson was searching through blackened, silent halls, because Sherlock wasn't home and it was three hours after curfew.

 

* * *

 

 

Music wove its way through Sherlock's body in spirals, reaching his soul like a striker hitting home. As he danced, his eyes closed in a mixture of concentration and bliss, his feet carrying him wherever his heart told them to and his arms poised gracefully in every turn, elbows bent above his curly-haired head. John Watson heard the music and stopped in his tracks, ears pricked for any sound of footsteps or other voices. He didn't want Sherlock to get into trouble.

 

_If there's a God then I'm letting him go, all for you. You alone..._

 

The heavy drumbeat matched John's racing heart and the screaming voice of the singer tied in with his frantic thoughts as he shuffled closer to the source of the music. This wasn't what he associated with ballet. Ballet was pretty pink tutus and peach leotards, dancing on your tippy-toes to Tchaikowsky. It was giddy little girls at a barre, turning and turning until their stomachs felt queasy and playing "good toes, bad toes" in their tiny ballet slippers. It was not what John saw now, as he quietly edged the studio door open and made his way inside.

 

Sherlock was in a world of his own, his pale body clad in only a black leotard, white t-shirt, tights and ballet shoes throwing himself around the room like he weighed nothing, his leg extending and rising slowly as he stood en pointe, his arms in an attitude. The loud music seemed to envelope him in a state of unawares, yet at the same time, his concentrated face made him seem like he barely heard it. John couldn't look away as he took a seat on the cold floor beside the wall, seemingly gone unnoticed by the dancing boy.

 

Passion seemed to radiate from Sherlock, like a perverted sort of aura that John could feel from the other side of the room. Sweat glistened on his forehead, his neck, his collarbones and this only made John more attracted to him. Everything was precise, his back unbelievably straight as he swung and dove and jumped and his movements well-timed and even. Perfect, was the word that sprung to John's mind. Perfect, until there was one stumble and Sherlock had to catch himself on the barre. John felt it coming.

 

"Fuck!" screamed Sherlock, his voice bouncing off the walls and hitting every corner of the room. The sheer volume made John grimace. "Fucks sake! I _hate_ you!" he screamed at the mirror.

 

"I hate you! I hate Moriarty! I hate these cunting shoes!" he ripped off his worn pointe shoes and flung them halfway across the studio. They hit the mirrored wall with a thud, and John was surprised it didn't shatter. He grabbed his hair in frustration and growled from the very pit of his stomach, a sound that almost made John weak at the knees. Sinking down and pushing his legs out, Sherlock held his head in his hands and began to sob dryly. Not because he was upset, he was not crying, it was because he was desperate. It almost broke John's own heart to see him like this.

 

But it only lasted a minute before the rage came back again, and Sherlock rose, glowering across the room at his shoes in a heap on the floor. He turned to the mirror, back hunched and glared at his reflection, despising what he saw.

 

"I hate you," he whispered. "You're worthless. Disgusting. Ugly. Absolutely _pathetic_." The last word came out as a scream and Sherlock balled his fists, slamming them off his reflection and repeating the last word he spoke over and over.

 

John decided to intervene here, rising from his seat and running to Sherlock.

 

"Hey, now. Come on, Sherlock. It's okay, you're okay. Stop it, now. It's alright." Sherlock whipped around to stare at John, his eyes conveying every emotion under the sun. Confusion. Anger. Pure, unadulterated rage. But something else, too; fear. Sherlock Holmes was afraid.

 

"When did you get here?" he whispered, voice hoarse and strained.

 

"A while ago." John replied, holding Sherlock's shoulders and sitting him down on the floor. "I watched you dance."

 

"You watched me?" A hint of a smile made itself apparent in Sherlock's tired features. John nodded shyly. " _And?_ "

 

"You were brilliant. Amazing. You're beautif-" John caught himself before he finished.

 

"You think I'm beautiful?" Sherlock enquired, head cocked.

 

"Well, yeah. I mean you are. You must know you are. Look at how you dance, you're _famous_ for Chrissake!"

 

"Oh, you meant the dancing. Of _course_. Not me." Sherlock was slightly deflated.

 

"No! I mean, you are. You're beautiful. Really, really gorgeous. Not your dancing. But your dancing is beautiful too. Gorgeous. You're gorgeous." John couldn't stop the words as they flowed from his stuttering lips like rivers, and he just faced his lap, red rising in his cheeks like a growing fire.

 

"John?"

 

"What?"

 

"Look at me." His face turned up and met with Sherlock's, breath surrounding their meeting faces and finally, their mouths locked like two pieces of a puzzle.

 

Suddenly, they were two teenagers in an empty room, kissing the breath from each others lungs. There was no one else but them, no pressure, no life. It was just them, existing with each other, for each other. It lasted for a moment and then it was gone, as John pushed away, standing up and breathlessly straightening himself.

 

"I-I, uh.. I have to go." His knees nearly buckled as he shot from the studio, his heart in his mouth.

 

Sherlock sat, alone and dazed and thoroughly confused. It had finally happened. Sherlock Holmes' first kiss.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Sherlock danced to in the studio was Pierce the Veil's "Chemical Kids and Mechanical Brides", which is a personal favourite and a great song to dance to.


	3. Chapter Three

**1 month later**

 

They hadn't really spoken since the incident in the dance studio. Every day, they passed each other with barely a "hello". At first, Sherlock was confused; he thought people were supposed to be happy when you kissed them. Then, he was upset that John was ignoring him. Now though, he was angry, and frankly, had more important things to be worried about. His audition was two weeks ago and he found himself constantly thinking about it, fretting the results. Every turn was calculated precisely and in perfect rhythm, Sherlock had made sure of that, yet he'd seen Moriarty dance. Though Sherlock hated to admit it, Moriarty was an exceptional danseur. People had said that about Sherlock too, at one point. Fame faded fast in this business.

 

John, on the other hand, was constantly thinking about how to approach his roommate, though it wasn't easy as the boy barely acknowledged him. The feelings were hard to hide, and it was making John utterly miserable. It was clear to him that their kiss had meant nothing to Sherlock, when it had meant everything to John. He had decided that he would just come right out and tell Sherlock, when there was a good moment.

 

This such moment came sooner than John expected. His lessons had run late and he got home well after nine at night, expecting an empty dorm. He nearly jumped in surprise when he saw Sherlock slumped in his seat, a joint in his hand. He was shed of his usual leotard and pointe shoes, instead opting for a clean white shirt and a pair of black chinos. John wasn't used to seeing him dressed like this, and, though the ballet uniform was attractive in all its tightness, Sherlock looked ten times more attractive now with his black curls swept to one side and his odd-socks clad feet dangling casually over the side of his armchair. He looked..normal, almost.

 

"Ah, John," Sherlock said lazily. "Join me, won't you?" John cautiously took a seat in the chair opposite Sherlock's, eyeing his drooped eyes and blissful half-smile.

 

"Everything alright, Sherlock?" he questioned warily.

 

"No. Far from it, my dear boy. But why fret when you've got cocaine?" John's eyes widened in surprise. "Oh, don't look so bloody shocked. I know you know. How couldn't you? The only thing people do in this bloody school is gossip."

 

Sherlock arched his back over the arm of the chair and grabbed for a plastic zip-lock bag on the mantelpiece. He shook it and handed it to John, who eyed the powder carefully. It looked like snow. Potentially lethal, absolutely illegal snow.

 

"Go on," whispered Sherlock. "I dare you." The gleam in his eye made John's heart hammer, yet he still declined, handing the bag back to Sherlock, who groaned. "Oh, come now, John. Don't be so predictable."

 

If Sherlock's rough, gravelly voice wasn't enough to persuade John, the way that Sherlock eyed him as he dipped his finger in the bag and put it to his lips, licking it clean certainly did. John swallowed as Sherlock kept the eye contact up, his pupils dilated and his mouth turned up into a cocky smirk.

 

"F-fine," stammered John. "Let's do it. Let's get totally, utterly fucked."

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock's laughter rang louder than the blaring music as he watched John spin in a wide circle, his arms flying behind him as he grinned at the ceiling. They were two kings on top of a castle, in a dream world. John had never felt happier, as he jumped around the room in time to whatever song played on the stereo.

 

"So," he grinned, plonking himself onto the seat and leaning forward to look at Sherlock who was singing to his heart's content. "Let's play a game. Let's play... truth or dare."

 

Sherlock nodded violently and sat on the very back of the chair, his feet resting on the cushioned seat. "Dare."

 

"Alright," John pondered. "I dare you to... run around the halls in your underwear."

 

"Fair fucks to you," grinned Sherlock, jumping from his seat and yanking his trousers down, making John throw his head back in genuine laughter. Sherlock unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it to floor.

 

"Coming?" John laughed again and followed Sherlock through the door. Together they ran through the halls, laughing and shouting without a care in the world. They encountered only one student, who was too hammered himself to acknowledge the nearly-naked boy and his friend running through the university at a quarter past midnight on a Thursday.

 

When they reached their dorm again, both were panting and laughing too loudly. Sherlock pulled back on his shirt, but buttoned it wrong and didn't bother with his trousers. They both sat back down, belting out the lyrics to _Living on a Prayer_.

 

"My turn," said Sherlock.

 

"Alright... Truth." smiled John, banging out a drum beat on his legs.

 

"Are we friends, John?"

 

"The very best, mate! The very fucking best!" Sherlock grinned back.

 

"Right, truth or dare, you mental bastard?" shouted John over the music that filled the room and probably the halls, too.

 

"Truth!" Sherlock shouted back.

 

"What age were you when you had your first shag?"

 

"Do you want to know a secret?" Sherlock leaned forwards and beckoned John to come closer. "I never have."

 

"Never?!" shouted John. "Well. Look at that. Famous bad boy's still a virgin. Do you want to know an even bigger secret?" Sherlock nodded, his face fixed in a permanent grin. "Come here." said John, and began to whisper in Sherlock's ear.

 

"I would shag you so hard, that you'd beg me for mercy."

 

Sherlock's eyes widened, before he began to smile and stand up. "Oh, John," he said, straddling John's hips and grabbing his collar. "I never beg. I get what I want, and when I don't, I take it for myself." John grabbed at Sherlock's prominent hips, digging his fingernails into his pale sides. His trouser-less legs made John swallow as he ran his eyes over Sherlock's skinny body and _Dancingbox_ by Modeselektor came onto the stereo.

 

"Christ," growled John. "Let's go to my room before I fuck you right here."


	4. Chapter Four

The low arrived soon after they made love and both boys came crashing down at light speed, hitting the ground in a bone-crushing slam. Sherlock no longer felt beautiful and strong as his limp, skinny body lay on top of John's. Self-consciousness took its hold on him as he rolled over, wrapping the blankets around his cold body, like he was building a cave to isolate himself.

 

John felt much the same, if not worse. His naked form suddenly seemed inadequate to him, next to Sherlock's slim yet toned figure. Slowly, he reached for his underwear from the floor, slipping them on while a pounding headache began in his tired mind.

 

Even though he despised himself at this moment, he had to admit that, of what he could remember, one of the best shags he'd ever had was with Sherlock. He'd underestimated his flexibility, a feature John didn't know he was so aroused by until now. As he looked upon Sherlock's chest, rising and falling, he thought of how amazing he was. He noticed the way he held himself so straight and the way he subconsciously arched his feet as he slept. Sherlock wasn't, of course, asleep.

 

Not only was he incredibly low, but he was now burdened with the results of his audition. A callback- they'd called him back. Him, Sherlock Holmes. That could only mean one thing: that they were undecided between himself and Jim, as they were the only two who auditioned- and were, frankly, good enough- to play the Prince. But for once in his life, he was not only thinking of himself. He had John on his mind.

 

As Sherlock lay and gazed at the sleeping John, his face illuminated by a glare of the full moon through the parted curtains, he thought of how unworthy he was of this boy. This kind, smart, beautiful boy who had cared about Sherlock more in the last two months than any friend had ever cared for him before in his entire life. And Sherlock felt guilty to his very core for being so cold, so unwelcoming. John Watson was the last person Sherlock deserved. He reached out to place his hand on John's face and stroke his cheekbones. A small smile forced itself onto John's mouth and he nuzzled into Sherlock's warm touch like a kitten.

 

Both lay in each others presence, feeling incredibly sad, but feeling it together.

 

* * *

 

 

When John awoke again, the first thing he saw was Sherlock, at the other side of the room, pulling a pair of tan tights up his slender, moon-pale legs. His bare chest was on full display, and John was alarmed at his form. Sherlock's hip bones stuck out too much, and John could count every concealed rib in his chest. The next thing John noticed was the pounding headache that felt like a hammer beating against his skull.

 

"Sherlock," he said, nose scrunching as he yawned.

 

"Oh, you're awake. Did you happen to see my pointe shoes?" Not bothering to look up at the half naked boy in his bed, he continued to rummage through laundry and boxes.

 

"No, Sherlock, I didn't. Why don't you just call in ill? We're already- fucking Christ, we're _three hours_ late!" Sherlock stopped, straightened his spine and turned his head in John's direction, flashing an incredulous glare at the boy.

 

"Call in ill?" he glowered, his face so sullen John had to swallow. Damn, that's attractive, he thought, biting his lip at the way Sherlock's oceanic eyes burned holes in John's, and the way his luscious hair stuck up in impossible directions after their rendezvous the previous night. "Do you understand what that means?"

 

John shook his head slightly, mouth open slightly and eyes glued to Sherlock's face. "That means I'm not dedicated. Once, I had a vomiting bug and still showed up to rehearsals. A girl in Grade Six broke her wrist and came to every class that month. I can't just call in sick because of some hangover and lack of sleep from some boy I fucked."

 

" _Some boy?_ Fucking watch it, mate."

 

"Whatever. Do you even realise how _important_ this rehearsal could be? They could change a whole number and I would have one less practice to get it immaculate, perfect. They could- I don't know, but it's fucking important." Sherlock proceeded to sling the strap of his black messenger back and storm out the door.

 

"Wait, Sherlock? Aren't we going to talk?" John shouted in frustration.

 

"I don't have _time_ to talk. Just.. I don't know, text me."

 

"I don't even have your num-"

 

"It's on the desk. Meet me at Angelo's at lunch."

 

"Where's-" The door slammed loudly in response as John slunk back into his pillow, groaning and running his hands through his dirty sex hair as he thought of the upcoming day.

 

* * *

 

John debated on whether or not to text Sherlock, but decided it was too teenage-girly. He was beginning to get impatient, but he knew Sherlock was a busy man. When the clock struck half an hour after their original meeting time, John rose from his perch on the end of his bed and made his way downstairs in search of his roommate. The narrow halls were empty, and John took the silence and peace with a grateful heart. 

 

Taking the time to walk at a slow pace without being patronized or yelled at by students hurrying to get to their classes, he noticed things he'd never noticed before.

 

Pictures of students scattered the walls, with aged plaques and beautiful paintings of times lost long before. One struck out the most, though; a framed picture of Sherlock, who couldn't have been more than fourteen at the most with his arm thrown around his older brother's shoulder and his face alight with a genuine smile. In his hands, he held a trophy and his brother smiled down at him. Something struck John like a slap; Sherlock was happy before he came here, before he was burdened with responsibility and the need to be the best. Because that's what he was, at one point, anyway- the best. The faded-gold plaque beneath the photo read: National Conservatoire of Dance, Under 15's Intermediate Ballet Competition, 2005. Winner, Sherlock Holmes with his brother Mycroft.

 

Life had taken its course on Sherlock, John could see, even though he was all of nineteen years old. The loose curls that framed his young face in the photograph seemed to have darkened, become more unruly. His once sparkling, oceanic eyes had faded to tired orbs of sadness, and his face had become thinner, drawn against his already prominent cheekbones. Ballet was eating at him, it was clear to John. His weight seemed to drop every time John saw him, and his obsession with absolute perfection and precision was a little frightening. Sherlock Holmes was being killed by the one thing he loved irrevocably.

 

* * *

 

 

John watched from the balcony, witnessing a zoo of different dancers, all in the one Sherlock.Elegance in the way he rose in his pointe and seemed to glide across the room, yet fury in the way he flung himself to and fro, like a whirlwind of energy in a succession of pas de chat. This wasn't the same boy John lived with, this was a passionate, emotional creature who seemed to become lost in the lines of music swirling through the room. He seemed to pour his soul into every adage, every piroutte.

 

Jazz, tap and modern were amalgamated into his elegant movements, and things that shouldn't have worked fit together beautifully, like his fondue followed by a subtle step-ball-change into a swift arabesque and a dash of unbelievably meticulous split-runs all the way across the room, where he stopped en pointe. Pushing his heels towards the floor, Sherlock bent over double with his arms over his head, catching his breath and wheezing ever so slightly, sweat covering his body.

 

"Well, well, Sherlock Holmes," said a masculine voice from the door of the hall, underneath John's position on the balcony. "You're looking well." The man's Irish brogue echoed through the large studio.

 

Sherlock straightened, his hand resting on his hip bone and his leg bent slightly at the knee. "Moriarty," he nodded curtly.

 

A small man walked into John's view, clad in a white tee shirt and a scruffy pair of denim jeans, and John swore he could smell his hair gel from the balcony. That said, he was still quite attractive. The man made his way across the floor en pointe, clearly flaunting his talents, with his arms in an attitude and his head held high in a smug position, stopping at Sherlock who was stretching his leg on the barre. He grabbed Sherlock by the waist, pivoting him around, his leg turning in a low battement. Sherlock rose on his other foot instinctively. Jim took his arm and turned him in a full circle, Sherlock still balanced flawlessly on one foot. He landed gently in a fourth position, extending and rounding his back leg.

 

Suddenly, Moriarty threw his leg out before him, landing on the ball of his foot and leaping brilliantly in a swift jeté across the floor, resembling a pouncing tiger, landing in an arabesque. Sherlock followed suit, finishing with a double pirouette and fell backward into the other boy's extended arms. Moriarty dipped him towards the floor, Sherlock's hands grazing the polished wood. John's eyes widened as he saw Moriarty's nose brush Sherlock's exposed neck while they dipped. Sherlock's leg rose straight, parallel, and stretched as he planted both hands on the floor and pushed himself backward in an elegant back-walkover. Jim danced his way effortlessly across the room and ended at the corner of the studio. Both boys began to run to the center of the room, Moriarty catching Sherlock by the waist and hoisting him effortlessly above his head. Sherlock looked like a bird in flight. Moriarty dropped him to the foot gently, and stood back and Sherlock sat on the floor, stretching his legs before him and grabbing the soles of his feet, feeling the dulled ache in his toned, over-worked hamstrings.

 

"What do _you_ want, Moriarty?" The boy put on a look of mock surprise, to which Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

"I don't _want_ anything, Sherlock. Can't two pals have a chat without talking business?"

 

"Is it money? Was I short on the payment? Because I can pay you back."

 

"Drugs aren't _everything_ , Sherly." John's eyebrows raised in surprise. So that's where Sherlock got the cocaine.

 

"Don't call me that, we're not _friends_. We're acquaintances."

 

"Oh, really?" smirked Moriarty. "Because I hear that you treat your friends _much_ better than your 'acquaintances'. Not that you have many." He threw his voice into a higher pitch, spinning on his heels with his hands clasped behind the small of his back, looking around the studio. John was shocked when they made eye contact, Moriarty's catlike hazel eyes squinting in a subtle grin.

 

"How's that, now?" Sherlock questioned, suspicious, as he down and stretched his legs forward, resting his chin on his bony knee as he reached to wrap his hands around the sole of his flexed foot, feeling a dulled ache in his toned hamstrings.

 

"You and one John Watson." Both Sherlock and John straightened in surprise, pulses quickening.

 

"How did you-"

 

"I have my ways." Moriarty smirked, examining the beds of his stubby fingernails. Sherlock slowly began to rise on his knees, but Moriarty stepped forward and pushed him back down by the shoulders.

 

"Why him?" Moriarty hissed. Sherlock struggled against his hold, but the short man was surprisingly strong.

 

"What?" Sherlock wheezed.

 

"Why would you choose him? He's so dull, so ordinary. So....human."

 

"I don't know what you're-"

 

"I mean of all people, you choose him!" he shouted in mock disbelief, the grin clear in the way he spoke. "You can do so much better, Sherlock. You can have someone that's worth your time. Like.. Oh, I don't know, little old _me_ , for example."

 

John's stomach churned unpleasantly as he saw Moriarty grab Sherlock's face roughly with both hands and force his mouth onto his. Sherlock's eyes opened wide reflexively and John saw his body tense. Moriarty grabbed Sherlock's neck, and, to John's complete shock and horror, he slowly began to comply, his shoulders visibly relaxing and his other hand brought up to rest on Moriarty's clean-shaven face. Moriarty snaked a bony hand around Sherlock's waist, pulling him up further and kissing him deeper.

 

"See, love?" murmured Moriarty, pulling back briefly. "I'm so much better for you than that common boy. John is so _ordinary_. I'll bet he can't make you do this, baby." He grabbed Sherlock's crotch and re-attached their aching mouths. A moan freed itself from Sherlock's preoccupied lips as Moriarty grinded his hand against Sherlock's crotch, and John couldn't look any longer. He ran from the balcony, hot tears burning his eyes as he dodged students and teachers alike, craving solitude.


End file.
